


The Tawdry Details of Your Defilement

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley and Feelings, Humiliation, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Violence, Multi, Rape Recovery, begrudging kindness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't a rescue. He needed Dean for something unrelated. And if he just so happened to appear in the middle of an attack, well, wasn't that par for the course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tawdry Details of Your Defilement

 

 

“Oh for _fuck’s sake._ ”

Four heads turned in unison to face Crowley. The fifth remained shoved against the smudged green velvet of the pool table, a dirty bar rag obscuring his vision.

“The hell did you come from?” one of the men asked. Someone else was raising a pool cue in a way that indicated that he did not know with whom he was fucking.

“Hell, oddly enough,” Crowley responded. He was already bored with this situation. He’d come to find Dean and it appeared that Dean was- well. In the middle of something. “I need the one on the table there, the rest of you will need to find some other way to amuse yourselves in the interim.”

“Wait your turn, dipshit,” the man behind Dean said. He turned back to the bound hunter, shoving his hips forward in a motion that was not at all lubricated properly, if Dean’s pained groan was anything to go by.

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” Crowley said evenly. One of the men rolled his eyes toward the others, and with a sigh, Crowley snapped his fingers. The man’s heart exploded, somewhat anticlimactically, since from the outside it seemed as though he simply exhaled and toppled to the ground.

Crowley would have though that that would _end_ the conversation, but no. This was apparently a particularly dense brand of cretins Dean had run afoul of, as evidenced by the remaining two advancing on him with pool cues. _Pool_ cues, for god’s sake.

He sighed and flicked them to the sides, ignoring the clamor they made as they slammed through the plasterboard on either side of the room.

The last man had his dick out, hard and bloody, and he didn’t even bother to put it away before swinging at Crowley with his fists, missing twice before the demon snapped his neck.

“Raised in a barn,” Crowley muttered. He leaned down over the table until he was face-to-face with Dean. He pushed the makeshift blindfold out of the way, meeting Dean’s eyes as he blinked in the sudden light.

“Hello darling. Fancy a drink?”

Dean answered with something sarcastic and no doubt profane which Crowley caught none of, because there was still a rag shoved in his mouth. Crowley took hold of the corner, yanking it out and casting it into the Third Circle for some imp to chew on. They loved tortured little objects like that.

“Come again?”

“I said quit wisecracking and untie me.”

“Hmm. You always were more of a ‘spread eagle’ type, weren’t you?”

“Shut the hell up, Crowley.” Dean pulled at the ropes binding his hands behind his back, at the same time trying to hike his torn jeans back up his hips.

“Suddenly so modest. Not like I haven’t seen it before.”

Crowley made a little twisting motion with his hand, and the ropes loosened, then fell away. Dean stood and yanked his pants up, leaning his hip against the table to hold them in place. He rubbed the reddened placed on his wrists, wincing. A trickle of blood was making it’s lazy way from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away.

“Did you need something, or were you just in the mood to talk about the good old times?”

“They were good, weren’t they,” Crowley mused, staring off into space. “Those triplets… though I don’t believe you’ve ever had _four-_ ”

Dean struck him hard in the jaw, catching him off guard.

“I’ve never _had_ four,” Dean growled, and for just a moment, Crowley saw the knight of hell again. “And if I hear _once_ that you’ve said otherwise, I’ll hunt you down and put an angel blade in your black little heart.”

“I’m hurt,” Crowley said, rubbing absently at his jaw. “You’re depriving me the story of a heroic rescue.”

Dean scoffed.

“King of Hell against four humans, yeah, I’m sure you’re just itching to tell everybody that story.”

“By the sounds of it, that’s four humans more than _you_ could handle.”

The color drained out of Dean’s face and he looked away. His hands rested on the hem of his jeans, riding far too low over his hips.

“Might be losing my edge,” he muttered. “Getting old, you know?”

“Not really.”

Dean scowled at him. Crowley didn’t have time for an introspection on the fleeting nature of mortality right now.

“There’s a tome of spells which I need and I have good reason to believe you have, holed up in that lovely little clubhouse of yours.”

Dean shifted, wincing as he did so.

“So?”

“So you know damn well it’s warded against me. Me _specifically,_ I was shocked and hurt to discover.”

Dean shrugged.

“Can you blame us?”

“Yes actually. But in any case, I need it, and I need you to get it for me.”

“And what’s in it for me?”

Crowley scowled.

“I’ll _owe you_ a _favor,_ ” he said slowly. “And don’t pretend like you won’t be calling _that_ in sooner rather than later. Way your life’s going.”

“Fine,” Dean said. Crowley raised his hand, fingers poised to snap them both to the outskirts of the bunker’s warding. “I’m calling it in now.”

“Not how it works, precious.”

“That’s how it works today.” Dean gestured to himself. “I’m gonna need somewhere safe for the next two days or so, ‘til all this is back to normal.”

“I’m _taking_ you somewhere safe. There isn’t anywhere on earth safer than the batcave, as you well know.”

Dean shook his head vehemently.

“No. I can’t go back there, not like this.”

“I’d wager it’s nothing Sam hasn’t seen before, in a similar context even-”

“I’m not _kidding,_ ” Dean snapped, and when he looked up at the demon his face was angry but his eyes were wet. Crowley was taken aback. He’d seen Dean in a lot of circumstances, but not like this. Dean’s voice was pained as he continued. “Sam _can’t_ know about this, Crowley. He _can’t._ Cas either. Crowley, I’m begging you, man.”

And just like that, the old violin bow of emotion was drawing across Crowley’s dried out old heartstrings. The sound was atrocious. He hated it.

“Fine. I have a plantation house in Louisiana, bought it up after the owner was hanged for some particularly dreadful crimes against man and nature. There’s no one there, you’ll have time to get over your….” He waved his hand vaguely. “… in private. And in exchange I get the book. Deal?”

Dean looked down. It was killing him to do this, Crowley could tell. But he was desperate.

“Deal.”

Crowley extended his hand and Dean shook it, reluctantly. His knuckles were bloody. By the second shake, they were standing in the foyer of the home in question. Dean staggered back; Crowley hadn’t realized just how heavily he’d been leaning against the pool table. He caught himself against the dark wood of the banister, glaring up at Crowley.

“Little warning next time?”

“Apologies.” The demon gestured to the white walls. “Ma maison est ta maison.”

He crossed into the parlor, leaving Dean behind as he sought out the portrait over the fireplace. He swung it deftly aside, revealing the door to a safe. “I very much doubt that there’s food in this place, but someone local should be willing to cater to you, if you ask nicely.” The door swung open, revealing a stack of rubber-banded American currency. He pulled a few bundles off the top and tossed them to Dean, who was waiting in the doorway.

“Just like that, huh?”

“Well _I’m_ not cooking for you.”

Dean shuffled through the bundles, picking one out.

“These are confederate.”

Crowley shrugged.

“I expect it’ll spend. Bedrooms on the second floor, housekeeping on Wednesdays, and if you throw any debauched parties I expect an invitation.” He raised an eyebrow. “Though I’d say you’re probably not up for merrymaking of that particular sort, at the moment.”

Dean scowled, keeping his gaze down, but Crowley didn’t miss the hint of red that came to his face.

The heartstrings screeched again. How irritating.

“I have other things to attend to. You can manage yourself here?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Dean was eyeing the dark wood of the staircase with some apprehension. He was going to have trouble making it up the stairs, Crowley realized. Human vessels healed so tediously slowly.

He turned to leave, but then something occurred to him. He turned back to Dean.

“One last thing. The attic is the site of a complex and frankly exquisite haunting. Leave it that way.”

Dean scowled.  

 

 

He’d meant to go back to his throne room. He really had. There were morons whose reports he needed to hear. Minions to punish. Updates to be… updated on. The situation with Rowena’s book wasn’t going anywhere for a few days, but it was _handled._ Handled well. That deal was weighted heavily in his favor and to be honest he was lucky to have gotten it.

Which made it all the more irritating when he found himself in South America twenty minutes later, snapping the tail off some godforgotten newt and absolutely _ruining_ his suit. Armani, if you please.

He wasn’t the son of a witch for nothing, and Dean wasn’t hurt _that_ bad. His pride, maybe. But there was nothing Crowley could do about that.

Or wanted to do about it.

It wasn’t his business what nightmares Dean Winchester had flapping around his belfry.

 

Some underling wandered in while he was setting the spell up. They had a question about some disemboweling procedure or another and Crowley was forced to vaporize them with an irritated sigh, lest it get out that he was mixing up _healing draughts_ in his study.

This was getting more and more tiresome by the minute.

 

Dean’s clothes were a depressing combination of worn, dirty, and ruined. Crowley considered flicking the whole pile off into the Fourth Circle, but thought better of it and sent them to Venus instead.

Dean was taking an unusually long time in the shower, long enough that Crowley’s impatience had _almost_ won out over his new and distressing feelings of goodwill. Almost. But he was still there when Dean emerged, a towel slung low around his hips. He was limping, slightly.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s my house.”

“I locked the door.”

“I didn’t notice.”

Dean stared at him, and Crowley felt suddenly uncomfortable. Another new and unpleasant reaction. He shook his head.

“I’ve decided not to wait. I need the book and I need it now.”

“I told you, Sam can’t-”

Crowley held out the vial, keeping his eyes on Dean’s face.

“This should fix you up. Enough to fool moose, in any case.”

Dean eyed him suspiciously.

“You can’t honestly believe that I’m gullible enough to drink that.”

“Drink it and I’ll never breathe a word of what happened here today. Swear on my mother.”

“You hate your mother.”

“Swear on my dignity as a demon.”

Dean took the bottle.

“What will it do?”

“Heal you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“What’s in it?”

“Tail of newt, angel tears, bone of a lesser saint. The usual. Do you want it or not?”

Dean looked carefully at the bottle. Crowley rolled his eyes. Being a do-gooder was a pain in the ass. This was taking too long. He had things to be handling.

“You’ll never tell?” Dean finally asked.

“Not a soul.”

“Or anything without a soul.”

“God, you’re pedantic.”

“Swear it.”

“Fine. I swear. Now drink it, I want my book.”

Dean gave him one last suspicious glance, then upended the vial into his mouth. And proceeded to gag, doubling over.

“Fuck, that’s awful.”

“But it _healed_ you, right?”

Dean collapsed onto the floor, panting, staring wide eyed at the ceiling. He coughed. From his vantage point on the bed, Crowley could see the abrasions on his knuckles lightening and then disappearing. So it had worked. Good. In retrospect, he was only about 90% sure that had been the right newt. He looked down at Dean’s semi-prone form.

“Get dressed. I have places to be.”

“Where’d you put my clothes?”

“Space. They were an embarrassment.”

He held out a plain white box, dropping it unceremoniously on Dean’s chest when the hunter didn’t immediately accept it. Dean sat up and pulled the lid off the box.

“A _suit_? Really?”

“Think of it as one of your little disguises. And when you get back, burn the other one. It was tailored to fit someone, and that someone looked nothing like you.”

Dean scowled, but he put it on, begrudgingly admitting that it looked better than the one he normally wore.

 

He was still wearing it when he emerged from the bunker, tattered old book in hand.

“This is the only spellbook in that section of the library.”

Crowley accepted it graciously, flipping it open to peruse the ancient pages.

“This is the one.”

“Good. Now get out of my yard.”

Dean turned back to the bunker, then paused.

“Not a soul.”

“Yes, Dean, the tawdry details of your defilement are safe with me.”

Crowley pretended to be immersed in the book. Dean smiled.

“Thanks.”

Crowley scowled, and vanished in a burst of black smoke.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Crowley POV before, so this was interesting. I hope he wasn't Insultingly English. It's been a really long time since I was in England and so basically all my knowledge of English terminology comes from Doctor Who and, uh.... Mark Sheppard. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also: longtime readers, prepare for Weird Fluff. Ya'll know I'm a big fan of noncon and trauma, but Husband has managed to implant a Smol Bean in me, and as a result, I have the sudden desire to write mpreg and fluff. Traumatic, nonconsensual mpreg and fluff. 
> 
> Follow HazelDomain.tumblr.com for more developments on that.


End file.
